Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stor'd—
As "Dam'me, Sir!" and, "Sir, I wear a sword!"
Here lesson'd for awhile, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.